The Retired Detectives' Club: See No Evil

By Shawn Scuefield

Meet retired police detective Robert Raines. After devoting forty-three years of his life to serving and protecting the streets of Chicago, he has called it a career. But good cop instincts die hard—--if they die at all. Before long, he finds himself teamed with two fellow retired cops, Dale Gamble and Ashe, as they take on the case of a missing 19 year old college student. The investigation takes them to the bayou state, Louisiana, where all isn’t as peaceful and tranquil as it first seems. Women have gone missing before in these parts, and they’ve never been found. Their search leads them to a family with a sinister secret and a connection to an eight- year- old cold case. The clock is ticking as they race to unlock clues to the young woman’s disappearance in hopes of finding her alive ... and before they become targets themselves.





“Raines is … a cool, appealing protagonist … Readers will surely welcome a series that features these whip-smart sleuths.” – Kirkus Reviews





About the Author



Shawn Scuefield is from Chicago, Illinois, and is also the author of the short story collection Short Days, Long Nights.





Follow the author on Facebook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645310716

Book preview

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The Retired Detectives’ Club

See No Evil

Shawn Scuefield

Copyright © 2019 Shawn Scuefield

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2019

ISBN 978-1-64531-070-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64531-071-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

For my girls, Leila and Maliea

Table of Contents

Prologue

I Want to Be the Night Stalker

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part Two

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part Three

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Interlude 1

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part Four

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Interlude 2

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part Five

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Part Six

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Part Seven

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Prologue

A Less Than Successful Attempt

Success, as Intended

Prologue

I Want to Be the Night Stalker

Summer, 1998

Chicago, Illinois

His confidence high, he stalked the streets like a prowling animal. He always imagined himself as a lion, or tiger, maybe, patrolling the night—surreptitious, stealthy, clandestine. And his prey—well, they never saw him coming.

It had taken him some time to decide what he wanted to be called—when he was in this mode, that is. He had always liked the night stalker; he thought it was fitting—appropriate. But he wouldn’t call himself that, not since the name had been bestowed upon the 1980s serial killer Richard Ramirez. Even though that was before his time, it didn’t make sense to have two night stalkers. That just wouldn’t do, not when you wanted to stand out on your own merits, anyway.

He hated the name the local papers had given him. It lacked creativity.

In the interest of originality, on nights like these, when he was in this mode, he called himself Azrael—the angel of death.

Dressed head to toe in black, his hoodie pulled tight around his head and face, his military-style boots made a soft thudding sound as he strolled. He made his way onto Lower Wacker Drive. The dimly lit, just over two-mile stretch of near subterranean concrete tunnel was built in 1909 to ease traffic flow in downtown Chicago. Azrael often wondered if the architects who designed the double-decker street ever foresaw what it would become or if they were rolling over in their graves right about now.

Lower Wacker Drive served as a home to many of the city’s homeless—his prime targets, his prey.

Here, the homeless congregated like Cape buffalo at a watering hole. This made the lower drive Azrael’s favorite hunting ground. Chicago’s a big city, with a large populace. He could find a homeless victim just about anywhere. There was just something about this area, though—something intoxicating. Maybe it was just the soothing sounds the water churning in the Chicago River produced that, well, relaxed him.

Unlike those prowling big cats Azrael often envisioned, he didn’t have three-inch canines and retractable claws. He had something else, something more suitable for an angel of death—a night stalker. With his Kevlar-gloved hand, he drew the four-inch karambit from the Kydex sheath he wore on his belt. He glanced down at the serrated, curved blade, admiring it, as he slid his index digit into the finger guard and gripped the handle.

He held the blade closely against his right side, away from the view of any passing cars on his left. On this night, however, there would be very few cars cruising the drive. Just about everyone in the city was too busy celebrating—celebrating another NBA championship won by the hometown Bulls. Azrael wasn’t into the Bulls, or basketball for that matter. Though, hold his feet to the fire, he would admit that Michael Jordan was something special. He didn’t follow any of the other major sporting teams in Chicago either.

Hunting—that was his thing. Now that was a real sport.

Let the city celebrate tonight all along Madison Street; let people go out and make fools of themselves as they march out into the streets, overturning cars and looting; let them occupy CPD’s time—that was perfect.

Azrael knew it was always better when he was alone with his work.

*****

The angel of death casually took in the scene on Lower Wacker.

He had many potential victims to choose from. He’d seen stories on the news about how some of the homeless were dead set against sleeping in a shelter. They’d rather take their chances on the streets. He thought about how that decision was going to come back to haunt someone tonight.

Some of the city’s less fortunate were congregated in groups of three or more in the corners and alleyways that ran along the drive. Oblivious to the few vehicles that roared by, others had staked out their own private bit of real estate among the filth and grime that had accumulated throughout the years. Many had all of their worldly possessions crammed into (what Azrael assumed to be stolen) shopping carts or large garbage bags. Some were bedding down for the night with thin layers of cardboard between them and the concrete sidewalk. A few managed to own ragged and torn sleeping bags.

It was a dismal existence, living among what was easily a ton of pigeon shit, sharing space with rats, and breathing in auto exhaust and diesel fumes all day and all night—a dismal existence that someone would be freed from tonight, Azrael thought.

Crossing Garvey Court, at once, he saw him, tonight’s prey.

The man had a noticeable limp as he pushed his (stolen) grocery cart further east along Lower Wacker Drive. One of the front wheels on the cart spun furiously, counterclockwise first and then whipping back around. Each time it caused the man to struggle keeping the cart straight.

He appeared to want nothing to do with the other huddled masses along the drive. He was a loner. He wanted his own space, his own piece of the shitty Lower Wacker Driver pie. The man’s cart was filled to the brim with a variety of knickknacks: crushed cans; an old worn, torn, and dirty sleeping bag; a traffic cone; and what looked to be several pairs of raggedy, mix-matched shoes.

Azrael moved in swiftly once he believed the man was out of view of the others. He strolled by at a brisk pace, bringing the curved, serrated edge of the karambit down in a powerful slicing motion across the back of the man’s neck and around to the front of his throat, much like how one of the big cats would use their claws.

The homeless victim fell to the ground, gurgling blood, unable to scream. The angel of death grabbed one of the man’s legs and dragged him further out of sight, further into the dark. He could hear the sounds of the Chicago River over the few vehicles that roared past at speeds higher than the posted speed limit—more Bulls revelers no doubt. Just the same, it was…relaxing. He took the karambit and, in one swift, powerful motion, sliced along the inside of his victim’s right thigh. Crimson gushed like water overflowing a dam.

His homeless victim was dead in minutes.

Azrael felt no pity. He felt no sorrow. He had only relieved the man of a life that little had been done with, after all. And you can’t ruin a future a person doesn’t have, now can you? Judging by looks alone, he placed the man’s age over forty, and to Azrael it was clear: If this was as far as the man had come in life by that age, his death tonight was more of a mercy killing than anything else. He was doing him a favor, saving the poor soul from this harsh, cruel world that had chewed the man up and spat him out like a flavorless piece of chewing gum, down on Lower Wacker Drive.

What you don’t use, you lose, right?

After staring at his latest conquest for a moment, Azrael then took the dead man’s left hand in his. He separated the pinky finger from its counterparts and, with a swift stroke of the karambit, removed the digit. He pocketed it—a lasting memory of their encounter.

The next morning, Azrael couldn’t help but chuckle when the Times reported the murder in a blurb. The paper proclaimed that the latest man was the fourth such victim. This statement was just one of the reasons the homeless had come to be his favorite targets, because if the mainstream media, the police, and society itself actually gave a fuck about these people at all, they’d know that this latest victim was the twentieth.

Part One

Relax. We’re Just Gettin’ Started

Chapter 1

Pollock, Louisiana

Ignoring the scared, shivering, young blonde strapped to the gurney before him, Orrin Robicheaux turned away from her and headed over to the cellar steps. He craned his neck and strained to listen. He could hear a feeble voice—a male voice—call out again, I can’t see.

Don’t worry, Orrin called back. You’ll be able to see just fine. I promise.

Orrin returned his attention to the shivering blonde. She was shaking uncontrollably, like a leaf in the wind. Her blue eyes were stretched wide and dilated with horror. Tears streamed out of those baby blues and down her face, dragging her mascara in thin, black, veinlike streaks along with them.

Orrin checked her bonds once again. He was meticulous that way. Certain that they were tight, he wheeled the gurney over about three feet to the right of where it had previously rested.

There, he called out. You should be able to see just fine now.

The frightened blonde turned her head side to side as best she could, in an apparent attempt to look for whomever the large man before her might have been talking to. Be still, Orrin said to her. His gruff voice, along with his gruff appearance—the thick mustache and beard, his lumberjack build, and harsh countenance—was horrifying.

Orrin rubbed her bare thighs with one of his large, meaty hands. He then slid his hand under her skirt and grabbed a handful of her privates. He worked his fingers against her vagina. The blonde tried to jerk away, clench up even. Tied down spread eagle on the gurney as she was, she could not do either. Orrin Robicheaux let out a chuckle. Relax, darlin’. We’re just gettin’ started, he said.

He removed his hand from between her legs and placed his fingers under his nose. He inhaled deep. Orrin enjoyed her scent. He smiled. Satisfied, he put those fingers in his mouth and sucked on them for a moment. This one is sweet, Orrin called out, again. He stepped away from the gurney and over to a workbench that lined the far wall of the cellar.

The tools on the workbench were laid out in a neat and seemingly particular order. Craftsman socket and pipe wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers were on one side. On the other were knives. There were plenty of knives. Each item had its own place. His fingers quickly found what he was looking for. Orrin picked up a blade with a serrated edge, his favorite Buck knife. He ran his thumb down it.

Oh yeah, he muttered.

Orrin Robicheaux turned toward the frightened blonde and held the knife high for her to see. Within moments, the sound of liquid running onto the floor filled the room. Her physical reaction, but more so the terror in her eyes, excited him. Yes, oh yes, it excited him. He felt a bulge growing in the front of his pants. His breathing increased from its normal, shallow rhythm to an audibly heavy, whooshing sound like leaves rustling in an autumn breeze.

Guess what, Pa! Orrin yelled. We got a pisser.

Chapter 2

Christa Miller felt her bladder loosen and its warm contents empty down her legs and onto the gurney and then the floor.

She wanted to scream; and oh would she scream, if the large man standing before her, holding that knife, had not already stuffed a ball gag in her mouth. And he certainly wasn’t gentle when he did it. She could taste blood on her tongue. She coughed, gagged, and choked as it pooled at the back of her throat. The metallic taste upset her stomach.

Christa watched him play with the edge of blade, running his index finger back and forth along it, almost as if he were in a trance. As uncomfortable as it had been, both physically and mentally, when he had thrust his hand deep between her legs, when she felt the cold, sharp steel slash against her thigh and a second warm liquid, blood this time, run down her leg, it was downright excruciating—both physically and mentally.

She struggled mightily against her bonds, which, from what she could tell, only seemed to delight the lunatic standing before her even more. He jumped around and howled with glee. Let’s do that again, he said to her. Then Christa felt him slash her other leg. The warm blood began to flow quickly. She let out another muffled scream.

Christa’s mind raced. She couldn’t believe she’d come to be in a situation that she’d seen played out on the evening news or repeatedly on some television show like Criminal Minds. But here she was, exactly where she never expected to be. Christa thought back to the ad she saw on You Trade It—the latest trading app, the new Craigslist or letgo, or so she had heard. She was in the market for a pet, a baby kitten. The ad promised just that. The owner’s cat just had a litter. Kittens were going for twenty-five bucks, a steal!

When the waiflike woman with the dirty blond hair pulled the white cargo van into the parking spot next to hers at the laundromat, it did not raise any red flags. The woman introduced herself as Emily, just as Christa was expecting; so when Emily asked Christa to follow her to the back of the van, again, there were no red flags.

After Emily opened the rear doors of the van and the large mitts of the man tormenting her now suddenly appeared, clasped her in a vicelike grip, and easily hoisted Christa and her 120-pound frame into the van in one motion, it was too late for red flags. The large, brutish man placed a wet towel over her mouth and nose. She didn’t know the nature of the fumes she was breathing in—but within moments, consciousness left Christa, and she knew nothing but darkness.

Then she woke up—tied down to the gurney, the ball gag stuffed so deep in her mouth she felt like she was drowning in her own saliva—just in time for the man to ram his large paw in between her thighs.

The big man turned his attention away from her momentarily, retrieving a small suitcase from beneath his workbench. He set it down gingerly, then turned, and gave her a wink before undoing the latches. Christa couldn’t believe her eyes at first—she half-expected him to pull a chainsaw out of the case, but it was…a record player. Within moments, the rhythmic voices of The Chordettes blared out:

Bom, bom, bom, bom, bom

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream (bom, bom, bom, bom)

Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen

Writhing in pain, with blood seeping from the light cuts he made into her legs, Christa could see that he reached down between his own legs and began to stroke himself as he bobbed to the music. The words he had spoken chilled her to the bone. Relax, darlin’. We’re just getting started. The big man had said that as if things were going to be just fine—fun even.

But Christa Miller had no idea if she would be alive when they finished.

Part Two

The Club

Chapter 3

Chicago, Illinois

The road to insanity begins with obsession. An FBI agent—explaining criminal behavior—dropped that little nugget on me when I spent some time at the FBI facility in Quantico back in 1996. I was there for profiler training that the feds were providing to police officers. I was working as a cop in Chicago at the time. Now that I had reached the ripe old age of sixty-three, having just recently retired, I realized that those words could just as well apply to my current situation.

I retired because I had decided that I wanted nothing more than to step away from the muck and mire that I had to wade through day after day as a homicide detective. I saw my retirement as a chance to smooth over the rough edges that had inevitably formed like a crust on my marriage, due to all of the time I spent chasing down murderers—suffering from the detective’s curse the whole way. I was always able to find clues that led to a suspect’s capture, but missed all the clues at home that my marriage was falling apart—that my wife, Elena, was lonely and that she resented the job and me. So I was going to use my retirement to fix the years of damage that I had unwittingly done.

Or so I had thought.

I had promised my wife, and myself for that matter, that I wouldn’t be one of those old lawmen who spent their golden years consumed with their old cases; but it didn’t take long for me to realize that while I didn’t miss the day-to-day grind, I did miss the thrill, the thrill of solving a puzzle—breaking down a suspect’s alibi—figuring out the whos and the whys during an investigation. I missed the thrill of getting the confession.

In that realization, I found that I suffered from a need—an obsession actually—the need (my mind won’t let me keep referring to it as an obsession because then I’d always think back to what that profiler told me) to resolve unfinished business.

There were five cold cases left unsolved on my watch. That’s five cases where I did not find justice for the victims or their families. Those families did not get the closure it was my job to provide. And while morning walks with my loving wife, hours of binge-watching her favorite shows (including reruns of NYPD Blue—Elena always said I reminded her of Sipowicz, in both looks and temperament), and nights out with various activities sufficed at first, my mind began to wander.

Elena noticed it too. The number of times she had to repeat herself because I had mentally checked out of a conversation we were having continued to rise. My mind could no longer stay in our living room with my wife, Andy Sipowicz, and the boys from NYPD Blue. It was off and away, pouring over clues from those five unsolved homicides, wondering what had I missed. Was there someone who needed further looking into? Was there an alibi that I didn’t try hard enough to break?

Soon after those questions began swirling in my head, I went on fewer walks with my wife in the mornings. I opted instead to head back down to the precinct. As I was close with my former sergeant, he didn’t mind me perusing old case files. Rob, just don’t let me catch you poking around any new cases, he had said to me.

More and more, that was how I spent my mornings, down in the basement at the precinct, rummaging through old case files. Soon, it was how I was spending my evenings as well. As had been the case when I was on the job, I was putting together clues, just not the ones at home, the ones that should’ve really mattered to me, until it was too late.

Robert Randolph Raines, my wife had said, as she stood in the doorway upon my return home one evening. It had been another long day of research. The hours had simply gotten away from me. It didn’t escape my notice that she had used my full name. That’s never good. I can’t do this anymore, she continued. There was a hitch in her voice, as if she had something caught in her throat. It made her sound strange to me. Later, I would realize just what that was.

I wanted to give this a chance to work, she said. I really wanted to see if we could try to fix our marriage. Lord knows why, given all I put up with over the years.

But… was all I could muster in response as I looked into her eyes. Those eyes, for the first time in our marriage, carried a look of defeat. She looked older than her fifty-nine years, much, much older. She was tired—tired of me and tired of being a cop’s wife, tired of sharing the man she loved with a selfish mistress, a selfish mistress that, more times than not, kept her husband out all day and sometimes all night. The packed bags at her feet said so.

In that moment, I knew that her leaving was going to hurt me. Yet, all I could offer was a three-letter word, But. I knew I should’ve said more. I knew I should’ve listed the myriad of reasons I believed she should stay, but the pain in her face and in her voice that night told me the message would’ve fallen on deaf ears, and quite possibly rightfully so. How much could I expect her to take? Didn’t I owe her the peace of mind of being away from me, if that was what she wanted? So I said nothing more.

And just like that, she walked out of my life after forty-two years of marriage.

Chapter 4

For the next few weeks, I drowned my sorrows in bourbon, plenty of it. I’d always been particular to Blanton’s, but either Bulleit or Maker’s Mark would do in a pinch. Commiserating with me during this time was my best friend, another former copper, Dale Gamble.

Dale had retired from the force just about six months before I did. We had worked a few cases together during our time on the force, and I wouldn’t mind saying that as good as I thought I was in the interrogation room, Dale was a master in there. I wouldn’t be exaggerating when I’d say he’d have a read on a suspect, yay or nay, in five or ten minutes. Everyone whom he sat across from was like an open book that he could read at will. That was the main reason